Spontoon Island
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Extracts from a Diary
by Amelia Bourne-Phipps
-edited by Simon Barber-
30 October, 1935

Monday 30th October, 1935
 
I am really, really considering “throwing in the towel” to this whole Adventuring business. There is a nice Finishing School awaiting in Switzerland with my friend Mabel where she says they have healthy winter sports and carefully chosen company from respectable families. I am sure I can catch up on my deportment and etiquette lessons, I will have only missed a month of term.
 
                Dear Diary: it is awfully hard to consider giving all this up, but I have absolutely landed in it this time, and even felines do not always land on their feet.  Everything started well enough on Friday night – ten minutes after closing your pages we were all down on the Eastern Islands docks dressed as if for a  nature trip, shorts and hats with oilskins in our knapsacks. We found Mr. Sapohatan waiting in a water taxi, and he briefed us as we took an indirect route to Casino Island.
 
                It seems that Lars has kept his promise, and had one of his own unofficial employees trail the money coming in – it would be far too much to expect the counterfeiters to have a regular base on Spontoon, something the regular Police could raid any dark night and expect to find evidence. No: by Mr. Sapohatan’s accounts the whole enterprise is mobile and never meets twice in the same place – exceedingly hard to spot, and timing the raid is critical. Once we lose the trail, the chances of finding it again in time are slim.

                Not only has Lars come up with the place they are meeting, but he even has rough descriptions of the key people who will be there – no names, but the  Authorities can find those out afterwards. What he needs us for is to find out exactly when they have arrived – new faces that nobody suspects. The meeting will  be in the next two days, is the hardest evidence anyone can give us.
 
                Maria and Molly are quite bursting with enthusiasm, especially Maria, who has been complaining she never gets to go on any of our adventures. After all, we are supposedly being qualified to be Adventuresses (though the Songmark brochure does not exactly use the word) and she is very keen to put all the hard classroom work to the test before the end of our third year. I managed to persuade her not to raid the armoury before coming out: the locals presumably have quite enough of that on official strength and having Molly and Maria running around Casino Island heavily armed is not really a good idea.
 
                Helen is considerably more thoughtful, and pointed out that even if we succeed we run the risk of getting famous, and will be no further use for this sort of job. Knowing what we do and becoming less valuable to the Authorities could be harmful to the health, she thinks. That assumes that Secret Police departments are ungrateful and hard-hearted, and I tried to reassure her on that score – less than successfully.
 
                Maria was ready to start lurking in dark alleyways in her trench coat looking inconspicuous – but happily we were not thrown on our own resources, at least straight away. We were given a meeting at eight at The Missing Coconut, where we are familiar faces; Molly was muttering under her breath that proper Agents always have their own bars in the films, with secret knocks and hidden doors like her father’s old “speakeasies”. I fear she is in for a disappointment.
 
                Although we go there every Saturday, The Missing Coconut really felt a very different place after dark, without our familiar dance tutors and rivals to set the scene. There were two dozen customers in there, but none of them looked like secret agents – and two waitresses were running around at maximum speed with trays and empty glasses, definitely working flat-out despite it being the tourist off-season.

                We cautiously ordered a Nootnops red apiece and settled down to wait – and quarter of an hour later we were still waiting. Then Maria idly picked up her napkin, and a sheet of thin rice paper fell out, with a message on it! Very exciting and puzzling, nobody except the waitresses had been near our table since we arrived. The message was for one of us to come out to the balcony – Helen volunteered, and was gone five minutes while we tried to work out who could have got close enough to leave the note. Molly and Maria squabbled a little as to who should eat the rice-paper note, which from the films is the stylish thing to do.
 
                She returned full of news for us: three of the gang have been spotted already at a restaurant up on Aloha Avenue, a rather fine one we have passed on the way to Tower Hill Park. One hardly associates criminals with exclusive restaurants (we had been expecting somewhere low-class like the Devil’s Reef or the Tum Tum Club) but of course these ones are literally making money. Our orders – well, “suggestions” was the word to be exact – were to see who they meet and gather what information we could. Even Molly agreed with that one, especially as we were getting quite hungry.
 
                There was no time to waste, so we paid our bill and were off into the night, tails held high and whiskers twitching at the prospect of some real action – it  was only about two hundred yards up the hill to the Golden Crab, the far end of the street to Countess Rachorska’s house. One of the finest parts of Casino Island, and certainly the dearest houses. There we had an awful shock – we were dressed for a weekend of scrambling round cliffs and beaches, and the Maitre’d on the door turned us away! Molly was all for telling him we were on a State mission of high importance – but luckily Helen grabbed her muzzle shut in time. It was a clear evening and we could see the lights of the airstrip over on Eastern Island, with little dots of light from water-taxis passing back and forwards. There was only one thing to do – Molly and Helen are our fastest runners, and they went off at a sprint heading back to Songmark for our party dresses.
 
                It was forty minutes nerve-wracking wait outside in the shadows: fortunately there was only one exit and although several diners arrived, nobody left. At last Molly and Helen reappeared, panting with their tongues hanging out like canines and carrying the precious Rachorska bundles. Getting changed was a problem, but we found a war-surplus gazebo in a nearby garden to use as a dressing room while still keeping an eye on the street.
 
                Just when we were properly dressed, Maria called a halt – pointing out that Molly and Helen had run two miles on a warm evening carrying packs, and although their appearance would get us through the door, their scent would definitely not. Rather an impasse – until we agreed that two of us could now go inside leaving the other two to cool down and watch the door. There was nobody else around on the street except for the usual “litter patrols”, one of whom I recognised from the Guide’s School we had trained with in Summer.
 
                About an hour later than we had hoped, Maria and myself strolled into the restaurant, receiving an appraising nod from the headwaiter. Fortunately, Maria has a generous stock of cash she keeps for such emergencies – looking at the prices on the menu, I was very glad we were not relying on my depleted allowance. I hope we can claim expenses, even so.
 
                One thing my Aunt taught me in such circumstances is not to keenly scan the place like a hotel detective: we scrutinised the menu and argued over who would pay before looking casually around. There were twelve tables, all but one now full – certainly at the Golden Crab they can afford to be fussy about their customers. We were glad to see there was nobody who recognised us – our tails had drooped at the prospect of, say, one of our dance teachers happily waving, loudly calling us by name and being keen to ask what we were doing.
 
                On the table next to us, was a very distinctive gentleman indeed, one we had been told to watch for. He was about the third star-nosed mole I have ever seen, outside films (where they can always find parts whenever utterly exotic Natives are wanted.) There were two well-dressed canines with him, and a place was set for a fourth diner to join them. Our hearts raced, at the thought of the mission coming together so soon – I could see Maria eyeing the door, wondering exactly how she would signal the authorities when we decided everyone was there.
              
                As it turned out, I received far more of a shock than I had expected when the door opened and a familiar avian figure strode on in – looking very  sharply dressed in a safari suit was a figure I last saw on Krupmark Island – Lars’ employee Boto Pikida! I had mentioned him to Maria before, so she perked up her ears when I whispered the name under cover of discussing our appetiser.
 
                Boto looked exceedingly sharp, I thought, even for a falcon gentleman – not a feather out of place, and wearing an impeccable white suit. To my horror he waved cheerfully, before sitting down at the vacant seat and going into a huddled conversation.
 
                We had decided on a light meal for the sake of our finances and the chance we might need to run and climb; the waiter had just served our prawn salads when I noticed the mole gentleman tap Boto on the shoulder and point our direction. Boto nodded, waving us over and we decided to test our luck. I could hardly believe he was a member of their criminal organisation – at least, not if Lars knew about it. The other explanation was that he was Lars’ agent on the inside, which was a far more comfortable notion.
 
                It was a decidedly interesting experience – we had been asked to watch this group, and we were certainly managing it rather well. We were introduced to their leader, Mister Brown – a rather commonplace name for such an exotic gentleman. His snout was quite fascinating to look at, fringed with pinkish protruding fingers like a sea anemone, and if our old schoolchum Ethyl was here she would surely be writing to “Weird Tails” ascribing him an unusual ancestry. It was very practical, as he could actually raise his glass no-handed and drink: rather like an elephant but with twenty-two opposing “thumbs” rather than a single trunk.
 
                His accent was american, but rather “red Indian” rather than anything like Molly’s or Helen’s – he mentioned Mr. Pikida had vouched for me, and invited us to join them for their meal, which we agreed to very happily. Some surveillance missions seem to be much easier than we had expected.
 
                Boto laughingly commented we had better not join Mr. Brown for poker, or we would be sure to lose our shirts – and with a warning glint in his eye, he mentioned that he can tell the truth. A strange statement to make, I thought – even Beryl can tell the truth sometimes, if she feels it worth her while.
 
                I felt Maria rather stiffen next to me, and she mentioned having heard of one of Mr. Brown’s possible distant relatives who is a diplomat – and is actually a walking lie-detector, which makes a lot of the usual diplomatic niceties rather hard to get away with. An alarming notion! This could explain why  nobody has managed to catch this gang so far, if he can simply ask someone if they are working with the Police and guarantee their answer.
 
                Boto nudged me under the table, and asked me if I was at work tonight. As this is an official mission rather than fun, I supposed I was – and as I agreed, I saw Mr. Brown relax slightly. Boto explained to the rest of the group that he had met me on Krupmark Island, at The Beach – perfectly true as well, if a little misleading. I could see him thinking fast, trying to think of harmless things that would point away from what I was actually doing here – fortunately, Mr. Brown seemed to be rather more at ease as he whispered something in Boto’s ear-pit.
 
                I tucked into the meal with a will, pointing out that I had never seen Boto on Spontoon before, and was surprised to see him here – which was an understatement and a half, and probably radiated Truth like hundred-watt bulb. He agreed, confirming that he usually worked in the rest of the island chain, and was here on business. Possibly we are not the only ones Mr. Sapohatan drafted in as “new faces” for this particular show.
 
                It was a very thrilling meal, having a combination of party game with rather more serious business – being very careful to only ask each other the right sort of questions, and still make it a perfectly normal dinner conversation. Maria immediately caught on, and we had a very relaxed evening on the surface of things, before Mr. Brown announced they were going to move on, and invited one of us to join them. He made it fairly clear there was only an engagement for one.
 
                A quick conference with Maria in the powder room followed: she would have to brief Helen and Molly, and contact the Authorities. Everything seemed to be moving a lot faster than we had planned, indeed we were quite swept along by events.
 
                We expected things to happen very quickly, and Maria memorised the telephone number we were given – not one that I imagine appears in any public directory, or goes through the usual switchboard. In five minutes we had been assured there would be a raid in force, but folk would be very unhappy with us if we called it in before the real leaders had showed up. Of course, we are totally unofficial and all that - I suppose this is only like being a Special Constable, sworn in for special occasions such as strikebreaking and not liable to the usual disciplines that hold back more formal officers of the law.
 
                A farewell to Maria and I returned to the table, trying to keep my ears and tail up and not to make it obvious how worried I was feeling. Boto took the chance to whisper that not everyone was arrived, and the Boss was still missing – but that everyone was moving on to a party from the restaurant. That was certainly more cheerful news – I’d not been to a real party in ages, and it hardly seemed the kind of thing desperate criminals would do.
 
                It was a fine night outside, and I saw no sign of my friends, with only the street sweepers visible working on the far side of the road. Everything must have been already arranged, for a large covered “jitney” taxi pulled up as we stepped out of the restaurant, and I found myself squeezed in with Boto as we drove off. The back window was rather small and I hardly wanted to be noticed keeping exact track of where we were – but one can drive anywhere on Casino Island in four minutes, and the drive took five, as if we were going in circles and being sure to avoid pursuit. We stepped out directly into the porch of a spacious house, and when Mr. Brown asked me if I knew where I was, I could give him an answer that pleased him.  The only clue for direction was the low booming of the Moon Island wind tunnel away behind me, where they are presumably testing something interesting.
 
                I had expected some dingy waterfront apartment, as one sees in the Talkies where crooks meet in profound discomfort. I had rather a surprise; it was a very tastefully furnished house, with stylish modern furniture and hardly a speck of dust to be seen. My spirits decidedly rose as I walked in, Boto escorting me very properly on his arm. It looked as if his ploy of passing me off as a business acquaintance was working very well, as Mr. Brown hardly gave me a second glance. Indeed, he was rather too busy to do so – as three lapine girls must have heard our arrival and came running in with squeals of delight – and were most affectionate. One of them brought out a huge champagne bottle, a Magnum at least (actually a 6-bottle Rehoboam, as I later discovered) and poured us all glasses with the skill one sees in a practiced waitress.
 
                I must say, I felt quite at ease – the rabbit girls looked as if they were littermates, and oddly enough all were called Natasha, having indeed faint Russian accents. Still, they were quite sparkling, devastatingly witty and cultured – not at all like one sees molls in the films of crook’s hideouts. Their dresses were definite Rachorska designs, though if anything more conservative than mine, certainly nothing like I had seen folk wearing at The Beach, where Boto introduced me as having been before (Mr. Brown’s nose twitched when I admitted having been there with him, but he
seemed very satisfied.)
 
                The three Natashas had different head-fur ribbons, in red, blue and green. Natasha (red) had quite a long chat with me – she asked about Krupmark, and I very truthfully told her what I thought of the place and that I was very glad to be here instead. I asked if they owned this house, which they seemed to find very amusing – possibly they are renting it. Natasha (blue) looked very thoughtful, and mentioned she had heard of an awful robbery at The Beach at the end of August, where somebody had stolen a month’s bankroll. My ears went right up in shock, and I noticed Mr. Brown watching me very carefully as I admitted I had heard nothing about it.
 
                It was well after midnight when the party began to break up – I noticed one of the canines vanish, followed by Natasha (green) and then his friend along with Natasha (red.) When Mr. Brown went off to the bathroom, Boto whispered that things were not going as expected – he had been told the Boss would be joining them, and that everyone was under orders to wait till he arrived. This left us in rather a pickle – I could see everyone was in a decidedly friendly mood, and to “bale out” now would quite spoil things. Boto’s tail dipped as he looked me over and whispered that he was willing to play along with the deception – which I could hardly disagree with, as we had almost nothing yet to tell the Authorities. He whispered that The Boss was bringing with him all the important information we needed to capture – without that, the whole exercise would be a “flat bust.”
 
                As it turned out, there were very well appointed rooms upstairs, with rather fine art prints and a wonderful carpet that felt almost ankle-deep to bare paws. I have never stayed in a hotel half as luxurious, except for that afternoon last year when I chaperoned Helen with the Hoele’toemi brothers at the redecorated Marleybone.  Boto announced he would be taking the couch, and very courteously looked the other way as I made ready for bed, discovering a freshly laundered and very fetching tulle night-gown laid out on the pillow. I kissed him goodnight most gratefully – certainly, he is a perfect gentleman and indeed falcons are often called the aristocrats of avian kind.
 
                Despite all the hard work of the day, the late hour and three glasses of extremely good champagne, I found it quite impossible to sleep. To judge from the sounds filtering through the discreetly padded doors, I think Boto was the only one actually asleep in the place. I even went to check in the dim light half an hour later – I could see his eyes moving under closed eyelids, and his breath panting slightly as he unmistakably dreamed deeply; I doubt there is any actor who could really fake that. Looking at him, I realised he is a most strikingly handsome gentleman even with the beak - and felt my tail start to go sideways, but batted it back scoldingly as I returned to my bed to leave him in peace.
 
                I heard the town hall clock striking two from the distance, and felt rather ridiculous sitting up in bed like a sentry on watch. It hardly seemed likely that the mysterious Boss would arrive in the next minute and order his troops out to work – not without an immediate mutiny, I should think.
 
                Dear Diary. I must make a resolution to stop doing this kind of thing.  Boto stirred about half an hour later and staggered out to the dim hall and the bathroom. When he returned – well, I thought the couch looked very uncomfortable for him, and Mr. Brown might ask if we had enjoyed our evening. The answer I could truthfully give him is “yes”. I do recall thinking before finally falling asleep that I should save my resolutions till the proper time, the next Solstice festival.

                I slept very soundly, awaking with the sun streaming through the windows, evidently past eight. I confess I panicked slightly, waking up alone – and chided myself that had Boto’s cover been blown, he would hardly have been dragged off without it waking me. Indeed, one of the Natashas came in cheerfully, carrying a pot of fresh coffee – it was hard to say which, as she had left off her ribbon as well as much else. She grinned and bade me good morning, happily chatting that she was glad of these booked weekends, with the whole day to relax in between times.
 
                Natasha red (as it turned out) noted that everyone would be back in the evening – but we were to stay indoors and wait or lose our bonus. Bonus? I was only grateful that my tail was still hidden in the silk sheets as it fluffed out like a log and an awful realisation hit me – just as a beaten-up old war surplus biplane is at heart much the same in principle as a Schneider Trophy winner – this place might be the height of Everest upmarket from The Beach, but it is at heart the same – and I was in it. Natasha Blue bounced into the room in that energetic Bunny style, complaining that the neighbours on Moon Island probably heard me yowl the place down. I had not realised I did!
 
                I had a choice between running out of the place in panic and probably blowing the mission wide open, or staying at my post. A good soldier hardly argues about his orders when given them in the field – I might not have expected this, but I did promise to go through with the mission. I had thought of us dodging bullets or sliding over precarious rooftops, and that idea had not held me back – running away from a tastefully furnished room with breakfast served in bed would not really sound well when Mr. Sapohatan asked why I ruined everything.
 
                Once I determined to stick with the situation for better or worse, the day really was very interesting. I kept the mission in mind though – from what I gathered the house was rented for the week, with the three sisters being rather vague from whom – the ideal cover for anyone needing toarrive and vanish at odd hours. It is very well appointed, with an absolutely huge bath and an electrically heated fur dryer, with fans – the first one I have ever seen, let alone used. I must say, it is a great convenience.
 
                Natasha (blue) seemed an uncomfortably inquisitive girl, and I was very glad she did not have Mr. Brown’s lie detection skills. She asked me again about The Beach, and noted it was a feline girl who had gone missing with the money, along with her friend – and I had mentioned leaving there with a friend who was now on Spontoon with me. I must say, it is an awful coincidence. The cat-burglar must have been one of the other felines we saw there: Phoebe is of course quite out of the picture, being of good family.
 
                I had a rather hard time stopping the lepine girls spotting my ears blushing red, as they chatted perfectly freely in somewhat … technical detail. It turned out that Natasha (blue) is curious about most things, and had much to say about Mr. Brown, the first of his species she had met. I must confess, for a second some possibilities on those lines occurred to me, Amelia Bourne-Phipps. From what I did gather, Natasha (blue) has now what she called “two cabins left to see on the Ark”: she mentioned two species so exotic I had to confess I had never even seen them in the movies. (Memo to myself: find out what an Australian Quoll and a Maori Tuatara look like. Natasha [blue] mentioned something about Quoll gentlemen that I cannot quite believe.)
 
                To my surprise, all the Natashas put in four hours of awfully hard exercise a day, and Ivery happily joined them in their routine while some maids discreetly came in and tidied without saying a word to us. By five we were definitely ready for more bathing and I felt more comfortable letting them groom me afterwards. It is no different really than being in the showers back at St. Winifred’s after a hockey match with the rest of the team, and the décor is rather superior. They have very surprising details of grooming, but I can see the practical reasons behind it – Molly has kept up that style all year, and I saw no harm in following suit.
 
                Still, every minute I kept checking the exits, expecting the unexpected, up to and including an awfully premature raid by the Authorities. That WOULD be embarrassing. But the unexpected failed to happen, and at nine that night we answered a most mysterious knocking. Natasha (green) seemed to know just where to go – she pulled back a section of panelling to reveal a door that seemed to be coming up out of a cellar I had no idea was there. Mr. Brown led the way
into the hall, asking some questions of how we had spent our day – the two canines were there, but Boto was not. My heart skipped a beat when I saw who was, though – it was another very distinctive person, a Babirusa gentleman more than two metres tall, with most elegantly polished tusks. I had seen one or two on films, but they are more Dutch East Indies than anywhere in our Empire, and I had never met one in the fur before – rather like a wild boar, with two sets of upward-pointing tusks like small sabres. He was announced by the others as Mr. Greene – their backer.
 
                The rabbit girls seemed very pleased to see them, and I saw Mr. Brown’s fascinating snout start to twitch – had he only been on the right side of the law, what an asset he would be to any Police force. I know they have official bloodhound constables who can track where suspects have been, but not what they are thinking.
 
                I did ask if Boto would be joining us, but Mr. Greene laughed and chuckled that they do not invite their friends to ALL their social gatherings. He joined the rest of the group in the parlour, leaving me hesitating for a second at what to do. It would have been nice if we had pocket-sized radios as one sees on futurist films – but there is nothing so easy as pressing a red button and signalling rescuers outside.
 
                Still – I had noticed the bathroom faces out over the street, and is invisible from the rest of the house – opening the curtains, I was grateful it was dark already as I began to flick the light switch in Morse – SOS and my own call sign, OSPREY, as I had agreed with Helen. All I could do was hope they had managed to follow me, and were looking out for my signal.
 
                I had hoped that rescue would be prompt. As it turned out, I had rather underestimated how much the Authorities really want to catch this
counterfeiting ring – before I had gone all the way downstairs to rejoin the party, the front door was
opened rather violently by a dozen burly constables, and one minute later everyone in the place was arrested – including me!
 
                Either the local constabulary were keen not to give me away, or they had not been told just who was on their side – either way, I was hauled away to the central police station with more speed than ceremony. This is my second unexpected visit, and I even got the same cell. Fortunately our Tutors were not called to get me out this time: half an hour later Mr. Sapohatan did that himself, though he spared any congratulations till we were out of earshot of the other cells.
 
                From what he told me, they had found in the cellar what they were looking for, not indeed huge piles of currency but the details of meetings and contacts which should enable the police to roll the rest of the gang up like a carpet. I did ask what they would do with the rabbit girls, who were really very nice to me – he frowned rather at that and pointed out they were not legal residents and had been working without a license. They would probably get nothing worse than an escorted expenses-paid boat ticket out of Spontoon jurisdiction, he suggested. I rather wonder if we will see this in the Daily Elele – unlike some other things I have seen, it is official Police business after all. I enquired after Boto, who I am assured is well and furnished with alibis for both sides – an odd way of putting things, I thought.
 
                A very happy meeting with Maria, Molly and Helen outside, who had been worried sick about me – and I could reassure them I had come to no harm. The hour still being early, we headed out to celebrate, and for once I could tell them everything that had happened (well, almost.) Molly looked a little disappointed that I had spent all day in a counterfeiter’s headquarters without taking away any money – she mentioned a phrase about not being able to organise a party in a brewery, or words to that effect. Still, I could point out that although my dress is excellently styled it is totally lacking in pockets – and of a fabric fine enough that everyone can spot the only thing underneath it is me.
 
                Everything went very well, and we returned to Songmark in the highest of spirits just before the compound closed at ten – to see Miss Devinski waiting for us, her ears down. She was clutching an opened envelope, and as she beckoned me into the gate office I could see she was fairly trembling in rage.
 
                I was going to ask what I had done wrong when she slapped the contents of the envelope on the table in front of me, and gestured for me to pick it up.
 
                Oh dear. I remembered the previous night Natasha (green) asking me if I had a hunting license – of course I do not, and told her so. But I added that if I legally needed one, I would get one.
 
                Dear Diary – Natasha (green) was only trying to be helpful, I am sure. I was puzzled earlier at Nuala mentioning her license for Casino Island, and now know just what she meant. The application form already had my description on it – Natasha could have done that. But I took very good care not to use my real name, let alone my address – but someone filled it in and sent it off, in time to get here today. Nobody in that house knew my full name and address, not even Boto, and he is on our side!
 
                You could say that Miss Devinski was not at all pleased. In fact, she asked me right there if I had one good reason why I should not be expelled on the spot and board the first flight out on Monday – there is nothing specific in the rules about this, but there is a vague clause similar to the catch-all “conduct unbecoming to the traditions of the Service” that Father mentioned is used for obvious offences not detailed elsewhere. I had various good reasons, starting with having no idea the form existed, and the whole project being a successful one by the Authorities that she had approved us going on in the first place. As that exiled German scientist (Albert Beer Stein or somebody) said about a book by his detractors at home titled “40 reasons why Beer Stein is Wrong” – if he really was wrong, one reason would be quite enough.
 
                I was about to tear up the form, but suggested she forward it to anyone who might be interested in handwriting and fingerprints – and she could ask Mr. Sapohatan what we actually did with our weekend. Miss Devinski calmed down slightly, but suggested I start packing anyway. Though we hear little official about what back home we called School Spirit, I think she would be far less upset had I been charged with Piracy – which may be illegal in most countries, but less of a betrayal of everything Songmark stands for as a producer of wholly independent, liberated young ladies. We have never heard of anyone being expelled from Songmark before – but there is a first time for everything, as Beryl found out when she so suddenly left Saint T’s.
 
                (Sunday) A somewhat gloomy day in more than the weather. It is either my bad fortune or a conspiracy on a scale that would hardly occur even to Helen, what the Sin on today’s service was. At any rate, it put me in no better mood – though the Native rituals after rather cheered me up. Saffina and Saimmi are getting along very well, as neither of them come from jealous religions that object to adding deities to the heavenly crew. In fact, I made my “confession” when I was alone with Saimmi, telling her more than I had even told to Helen. She absolved me in the Native way, and judged that there are many sorts of casualties in defending one’s Island – some folk lose their limbs, others reputations.
 
                I hope Jirry is as forgiving as his sister – last time I had at least the excuse of catnip. It is a definitely uncomfortable thought. I am very glad Boto escaped unharmed, though I may never be able to look at a feather pillow or duster in quite the same way again.
 
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